This fall I took off a couple of months from work to recharge my batteries. Not working affords me the opportunity to partake in my true passions. These passions are (in not certain order), waking up at 10:00 in the morning and lying in bed till 1:30, taking leisurely road trips to visit my friends and family, sitting in coffee houses in downtown Asheville trying to look subversive, eating burritos while still exuding subversiveness (yes, I am passionate about burritos), and traveling.
My friend, Brian, and I decided we should go to Argentina. My reasoning was if South America is what we wanted, and it was, we should go all the way to South America, so we did.
After a 12 hour overnight flight to Buenos Aires, we arrived the next morning somewhat dazed and cramped. We picked up our bags from baggage claim and were immediately approached by a taxi driver for the ride into the city. Now, I have traveled a bit, so I know that when you arrive at any airport, bus station, or train station in the world you wait in the taxi line with everybody else. You don’t try to negotiate your own ride with somebody who may or may not have your best interests in mind. It doesn’t matter if they speak English or promise you immediate service. Get the taxi that is legitimate enough to wait in the taxi line. If a taxi driver has to subvert the line, then maybe he is a con artist.
But I was tired. Brian was tired. We were tired, dazed and hungry, so we relented. We got into the taxi, and off we went on the thirty minute ride into Buenos Aires. We had not smoked in twelve hours, so the driver told us to light up. Smoking in his taxi was allowed. While I fumbled for my cigs, Brian asked him why the meter wasn’t turned on, and the driver played dumb. Brian and I gave each that knowing look.
I lit up, and we looked out the window. After a few minutes of silence, I turned I told Brian that we were probably going to have to pay a little more than “normal fair.” As we approached the dirty outskirts of Buenos Aires, I begin to smell something burning. I thought it was brakes or the normal smell of a city of twelve million people. I wasn’t overly concerned about the smell until smoke began to fill up the inside off our taxi which was now moving slowly in the early morning traffic.
Our driver quickly pulled off to the shoulder to investigate. He opened the trunk and smoke came billowing out. Somehow, in my haste to get that sweet, sweet nicotine into my body I had been careless with my ashing. The strong odor of burning seat foam confirmed my fears: I had been in beautiful, lovely Argentina for less than fifteen minutes, and I had caught a taxi on fire.
The driver opened up the back door and stuck his hand into the gap between the seat and the door frame. He screamed and pulled his hand out. The burnt foam, gooey and black, now was stuck to his hand. My Spanish, by no means fluent, was good enough for me to understand that this caused him pain and that he was unpleased by these event. The driver was brave enough about it all though. He used an old rag from the trunk to try to stop the foam from burning. After a minute or two he was satisfied. He got back in the taxi, clutching his now burned hand, and we got back on the road. I apologized profusely, even though I may or may not (this part gets foggy) have laughed loudly at the situation before offering sincerest regrets.
Soon we were in Buenos Aires, and the taxi was filling up with smoke again. As we sat at a red light, smoke wafting from around us like a Cheech and Chong movie, the driver decided to take more decisive action. Plus Brian and I had also said we would rather get out there and find a taxi that wasn’t on fire (even if said fire was my doing).
Our taxi driver said no. He had agreed to get us to our hotel, and he would even if we were crisp and smokey. Spotting a beggar across the street drinking a orange Fanta, he jumped out and ran quickly across traffic, threw some money at the beggar, and returned to douse the back seat with the tasty yet flame retardant orange liquid. We heard the sizzle that a burning taxi seat makes when tasty yet flame retardant orange liquid is thrown on it.
We did not have to stop, drop and roll. I was grateful and gave our taxi driver a high five on the hand with the third degree burns. Soon, we were at our hotel.
I asked what the damage was. The taxi driver rather than telling me, reconnected the meter. The total, 280 pesos, flashed on the meter. The driver now repeated the sum in Spanish and English. That is 90 US dollars. He also insisted I pay in dollars, which I knew was rubbish. But I paid it with a minimal degree of complaining. I knew it was way too much. Later we found that a taxi ride from or to the airport should only be about 60 pesos.
Briefly, I had that familiar angry feeling I get when somebody has preyed on me and sought to exploit me. He had been planning on charging that fare from the beginning. He had his meter stopped at that price. But I wasn’t as angry as I would have been had I not lit his taxi and boiled his hand. Besides, who knows how much orange Fanta costs in Argentina? Upon realizing that I (despite not tasting any of the Fanta) had actually come out ahead in our entire exchange, I started to feel pretty optimistic about the time ahead in Argentina. I don’t know if Brian was as optimistic about traveling with me.
